Finally: A triumphant book find!

Yes, a full blown triumph. Not a mere win, or even a joyous victory. Aravind Adiga has restored my faith in publishing houses and editors alike, not to mention the Booker selection committee. I always have conflicting feelings about Booker shortlisted authors. Reading is such a deeply personal experience; what speaks to you, is just as easily white noise to someone else, not unlike the same book read memories ago. It just seems like so many people rave about a book simply because it's politic, and not because it pleased them. One review said about this one, "One of the most powerful books I've read in decades {he obviously hasn't been reading much}....This debut novel hit me like a kick to the head......". Thus far, it's been the reviews that deterred me from the acquisition - let's face it, I'm fluffy when it comes to reading. I like to enjoy my books, be the characters, laugh, hate and cry with them, and take pleasure in an author's style, feel the words. I hate having to go back and read the same thing fourteen times to divine meaning, I hate obscure cleverness that leaves me bemused and wondering just what the hell the point was. But, it was in paperback, and well... I had time to kill, so I succumbed. The White Tiger. Winner of the 2008 Man Booker Prize. It is now mine.
Unlike the reviewer, my head is fine. More than fine. I cannot remember the last time I forgot I was at an airport, or the last time I used the overhead light on a flight. I just don't. But this book.... does not allow interruption. It's like a relentless river, and you have no choice but to follow her to the ocean. Aravind Adiga is a storyteller. Simple, direct, and achingly funny. Maybe it's because I'm Indian, but it seems to me, that all the reviews have the wrong end of the stick. It's not the story that's a masterpiece, it's the way this man writes, leaving you with a deep sense of satisfaction. I always feel so very pleased with myself having been on the receiving end of a good book, film or play, and I was very pleased by this book. Very, very pleased. Pleased enough to nearly hand out 8 gold mohurs, 5 goats, no 14 camels, and 1.25 dhigas of land in Hoshiarpur to seats 33B & 33C. It is about India, and the way we are. But then again, so was Shantaram... but the chappie who wrote that (hang on, while I google) - Gregory David Roberts, is a prat. The book, exotic, by the bucketful, with my Bombay painted well in some pages. The character, unloving, insincere, self absorbed scum. You feel nothing for him, because he cares for nothing. An exercise in glorifying an un-charming thief, liar, junkie, loser turned author given an unbearable extra 15 minutes of fame by Johnnie Depp being cast to play him in the film.
The White Tiger (our hero) has killed as well. But he cares. Deeply. Sincerely. Honestly. You feel his life. You know his heart. His tendency to go off on a tangent every now and again resonates deeply, and his unsophisticated language endears him. His world is such a familiar one. I do sometimes forget how different our frames of reference are, and how shocking our social structure can be to a Western mind. Maybe that's why the difference in our appreciation of the book. For an Indian, the story is mundane, it's just the way life is, without an excessively deeper meaning. It is how we live, which, gives us the advantage of being un-distracted by inexplicably convoluted social/feudal structure that befuddles most, and allows the unrestricted pleasure of Adiga's prose, his simplicity and vision to flow over you. Some idiot (probably not a fair comment) reviewer asked if it was important to Adiga to present an alternate view of India, one we don't often see and if a Western audience needed this.... his response. "I simply wrote about the India I know, and the one I live in It's not 'alternative India' for me! It's pretty mainstream, trust me". Do. Trust him. That's the essence of his style. Neither pretentious, nor self conscious. It isn't a great debunking of the myth that is India, or a torrid social commentary on the schisms that divide us. It's just a bloody good story. Well written, funny, sometimes dark, but always true to itself. All too often 'exotic' authors have been the trend to follow, their background and experience overshadowing their minuscule talent. Just because the story being told is one you could never imagine, doesn't make the writer special. Yes, to a Westerner, the story is deplorable, appalling and outrageous even, but don't let that take away from the storyteller's skills. Adiga is special. I'm still wallowing in how pleased the book made me feel, although I'm not that pleased to admit that I'm in full on gush mode (because nothing annoys me more than having people gush about books you MUUUUST read), but I can't help myself. I must inflict this on those I love. Ha! Have 37 camels and the maharaj from Tupu's wedding. He's worth it.